The Falling Light
by The Wayfaring Strangers
Summary: 'Thanks,' Steve murmurs, rolling to his feet. For a moment, he blinks down at me, yawning, and I stare up at him. We are only Steve and Natasha, cocooned in halo of dust and light. (Post-Winter Soldier speculation. Not exactly shipping.)


A warm breeze flickers in the blinds, scattering flashes of sunlight across wooden floor and dusty blue walls. I can hear someone in a neighboring house playing piano as bees in the flowerbox spin a droning harmony. The notes fall and fast and fluttering, yet oddly peaceful from this distance, mixing with Steve and James' deep, even breathing. They almost erase the worry lines and scars on Steve's face and the dark smudges under James' eyes. If they were awake, the Captain would be planning our next move and the soldier hiding from us both; sleeping, they both exude calm and trust. I feel it seeping into me and I would like nothing more than to find my own mattress and lie down beside them.

But I can't.

Fury's commanding stare burns a hole through my mind, his earnest words flooding my ears. We have to move; we've already stayed here too long. The piano reaches a crashing crescendo, chasing away the ghosts of SHIELD's ruin. For a minute, I'm sure it will wake Steve, light-sleeper Steve, but he sleeps on, pulled under by exhaustion. I can't wake him. Not yet. I don't – I can't - have the right to pull them both back into this... this whirlpool that is our life.

But it's all my fault. If I had let Steve cut my hair that night in the storm-soaked alley, or run after James that sunlit morning in May, or pulled up my hood when they both elbowed at once, instead of proudly lifting my chin, our target would dead for good. But now the fear of failure hangs over us constantly. Whatever rhythm our lives had settled into after Mahatten is shattered in the wake of what Clint called 'the end of the world' for good reason. I sink to the wooden floor. We're spinning round the world at breakneck speed, chasing HYDRA, chasing redemption.

Steve tells me, _It won't always be this way,_ and rubs my shoulder when I ask him, _How? Why? When? _But I've seen the way his fists clench and his face crumples when he thinks I'm not looking. He deserves to rest, to sleep for another hour. So I observe him, lying in the hazy sunlight. His sandy hair is rimmed with lazy fire and his eyelashes catch the sun, shining against the shadow of his face. My gaze drifts to James, curled full in the sun, his arms – scarred flesh and flawless silver – crossed under a crows-nest of dark hair. His face, narrow as an alley, and just as dirty, looks oddly innocent in the falling sun. But under the grime, he is deathly pale and so afraid. I can see this peace dissolving like a puddle on a hot afternoon when they wake.

Coated in light, they look more like brothers than near-enemies, collapsed from a long day of building and working, rather than a endless night of running and hiding, dodging the street lamps. But I can feel the illusion shattering against a shaking hand and a quickening word and I want the sun and the bees and the piano and the deep breathing to go on forever, more than I've wanted anything in along time. I want to lay down beside them and lock this peace away inside of me, somewhere deeper than my heart.

I wish I could draw, like Steve. I would sketch the light and breeze and the scar on James's eyebrow and the dust motes hanging in the air like sparks. I would shade in Steve's relaxed face and my own wonder that he would ever trust _me_ to guard his sleep.

Trust. He trusts me to keep watch, I who have killed dozens in their sleep. I and a murdering machine, slowly waking to the horror of his own handiwork. But we will not betray him; trust is worth more than a roomful of light and peace. My mind set, I wade through the breeze and birdsong, my bare feet slapping softly on the floor.

I reach out and shake his shoulder, sending ripples through the silence as he stirs. Sleepy blue eyes smile up at me as James yawns, stretching like a cat. The moments inch by and somehow, no-one frowns or glares or mumbles something snide.

'Thanks,' Steve murmurs, rolling to his feet. For a moment, he blinks down at me, yawning, and I stare up at him. We are only Steve and Natasha, cocooned in halo of dust and light.

* * *

_So. Post-Winter Soldier speculation. Steve's found Bucky, and now their going around taking out HYDRA agents with Natasha. This is just kind of happened. Probably in the same universe as Says the Ironhearted Man. The Winter Soldier bug hasn't left though, so you might get some more..._

_Thoughts? Did it make sense? Did my experiment with first-person pay off? I'd love to hear what you think! _

_-RandomCelt_


End file.
